


Mama Foxter’s Week of Wonders

by Sp00py



Series: A Study in Snuffering [11]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine, Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Abuse, Achilles’ tendon trauma, Burning, Child Torture, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Incest, M/M, Manipulation, Masturbation, OCs galore, Other, Psychological Trauma, Second Person, Snufkin snack, Tags to be added, Torture, Vomit, mentioned necrophilia, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-07-15 16:21:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16066856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sp00py/pseuds/Sp00py
Summary: You find out what your son's been up to these past few years. It's not exactly the future you envisioned for him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> We are deep, deep in Happyverse here. Snufkins and Joxters are plentiful, and Snufkins are prey to cruel Joxters. Though everyone in-story is referred to by their species name, a character list:
> 
> Mama Foxter - Happy’s father; a good person, so far as Joxters go  
> Tails - a small Snufkin who enjoys the arts, company, and being alive  
> Happy - Mama’s son, a good boy, Bendy’s plaything, and very very broken  
> Lazy Joxter - the worst Joxter; if there’s something horrible that can be done, he’s done it to a Snufkin  
> Wuffkin - a very young Snufkin, new to the world and far too trusting

You spend your days as a Joxter should — lazy and carefree. There are other ways you don’t spend them that a Joxter would, but this is why you’re not like other Joxters. You feel it makes you more properly a Joxter to rebel against the expectations of others, especially other Joxters, and try not to think too hard on what they do that you don’t. It gets upsetting. You’re already upset just thinking about it, and tired, because thinking takes so much energy. It’s best not to do too much of it.

Instead, you find yourself a Snufkin, don’t think about what other Joxters would do to him if they’d found him instead, and bury yourself in his scents. He smells like paints, water, and woodsmoke, with a thin rat’s tail that wraps around your leg. You don’t see many Snufkins with tails, and you enjoy playing with it, especially because it makes this one all shuddery and breathless with relatively little exertion on your part.

“Papa,” Snufkin whines, black paws curling into your scarf, hips rubbing against you so nicely.

“Yes, dear,” you murmur against his ear, already feeling pleasant and sleepy.

You roll over onto him, holding him down like a caught mouse (this one really is so small), pulling more cries from him as he writhes under you. A blush creeps across his freckled cheeks, making you want to kiss them, so you do until he tenses up beneath you, then goes limp with another happily murmured “papa” that slinks down your spine like fingers.

Now that he’s still, you can tangle yourself up with him and feel him breathing. You know your way around Snufkins. They’re nice, very nice — you might even like them more than Mymbles —but so energetic. You have to exhaust them to cuddle.

You rest on him until the sun’s high in the sky, enjoy him a second time, then let him go do his Snufkinish things. He’s more affectionate than other Snufkins you’ve known, and promises to bring you a fish. You watch him leave, all pale greens and paint stains like dapples of colored light on his clothing. What a pretty Snufkin he is, you think, because that’s a safe thought, an easy one. And so kind. But also a little stupid, trusting a Joxter like this. You don’t want him caught up in any trouble, so decide, if you remember before he leaves, to warn him about other Joxters. You hope he stays a while, though.

You imagine curling around him as the sun sets and the night air blooms with fireflies. Some Snufkins you’ve known liked catching them, as though plucking stars from the sky, only to release them again to their mating. You’d like to take this little Snufkin under a sky like that.

You’ve only known him a day, but you’re already in love, as so often happens with Snufkins. If you could, you’d enjoy this one until winter winds chase him away like the skittish creature so many Snufkins are but pretend not to be. But winter is far away, and there are more days to come, days, you hope, filled with more lovely Snufkins when this one inevitably leaves.

You’re lazily stroking yourself under your coat when a shriek cracks across the forest like stone breaking, and cuts off just as sharply. It’s a sound you’ve only heard a few times, long, long ago, and it kills any pleasant musings. Snufkin. Your first thought is another Joxter. A rare few like to work fast, taking and hurting and leaving them to die.

You scramble to your feet in a flurry of flowers, chase after a trail that’s so easy — too easy, any Joxter could follow him — to see, to scent. You barely register the strange smell intermingled with Snufkin’s until you’re brought up short.

It’s not a Joxter. It’s not anything you recognize: some glossy black thing dripping fluid on the spring grass, all skeletal and bestial, nothing but jutting angles. You can’t make out its head properly because it’s currently snuffling against (or eating? Creator above, you hope it’s not eating) Snufkin’s limp body. You try to take comfort in the fact that you don’t smell blood as you retreat several steps and circle around, closer to Snufkin.

It raises its head when you dare approach, oddly flat and round compared to the rest of it, and you take that as a good sign. You want it aware of you, so it doesn’t get startled. Your movements are treacle slow, waiting for any sign of aggression. None come. Though you’re not sure it can see you, it can clearly sense your presence.

Snufkin’s breathing, but you can’t move him as a large, viscous paw is planted firmly and painfully over one thin leg.

“Excuse me, dear,” you tell the creature, trying very hard to keep your own voice steady. There’s something distinctly _wrong_ about it, like it’s not truly a part of the world. Like it’s just barely not real enough to exist. It makes your skin crawl. All the more reason to be respectful, if the claws digging into the soft earth and jagged teeth weren’t enough. “This is my Snufkin. I’m afraid you’ll have to—” you can’t tell it to find its own Snufkin, so falter on what to say.

It tilts its head.

“Would you be so kind as to get off of him?” You don’t really like being polite, as it sounds artificial and spurious and is something other Joxters do to trick poor silly Snufkins, but would rather not piss off this thing.

Instead of getting off of Snufkin, the creature jams its head against you, almost knocking you over. Snufkin groans at the shift, and you swallow a startled cry. It’s smelling you. Just smelling, though you can _feel_ those teeth pressed against your belly. Its breath soaks moistly through your layers.

Then it pulls back. You have a moment to be relieved before its tail whips around and wraps around you.

“Wh— put me down!” You demand. The creature ignores you and bends down to pick up Snufkin in its teeth by the back of his coat. “Put him down, too!”

It continues to ignore you and turns, face to the wind. It scents several directions, then picks one to lope into.

Your protests quiet as the hours creep by, leaving you to ruminate on the nature of the thing holding you captive. It, you discover, is dreadfully bad at navigation, as it has to retrace its own path and constantly stops to orient itself. The horror of the situation, not knowing what it plans, what it even is, is surreal. The sun begins to set, and instead of cuddling Snufkin, you’re left to watch his limp body swing.

He wakes up later into the night, and, wisely, doesn’t immediately scream. The swaying soon nauseates him to the point of vomiting, and all you can do is offer some comforting words and what explanation you can. You’ve tried talking to the creature, cajoling and demanding, kicking and biting (an action you immediately regretted), but nothing has worked so far.

Worse than what your own fate would be, it pains you to see and hear how scared Snufkin is. Petrified into inaction, the poor dear. It’s difficult to soothe him from where you are, but you ache for nothing more than to make him feel better. He reminds you of your own Snufkin, when he was young and frightened as children often are. You hadn’t been the best at comfort then, but you’d let him hide under your scarf and that seemed to work well enough.

While this Snufkin can’t hide, he can at least know you’re there. He’s not alone, being taken to wherever this creature calls home.

The night drags on, so dark it feels like even the stars have hidden in fright.


	2. Chapter 2

You’d hoped the creature would tire itself out, need to rest so you could get Snufkin away (you’re fairly convinced by now it was sheer chance it found him at all), but it’s dogged in its pursuit of home. You sleep, sometimes, lulled by the rhythmic movements of its tail. Even Snufkin’s terror abates enough to attempt an escape, but the creature just tosses him up like a toy and catches him in its mouth. He screams, then, as teeth cut into flesh and blood fills the air.

Your own struggles renew when Snufkin cries out for help, memories of other Snufkins begging and bloodied vivid in your mind. You can’t go through that again, can’t see another Snufkin killed so viciously, so pointlessly. The creature easily contains you both. Snufkin‘s cries give way to shaky, loud breathing. You also take some comfort in the fact that Snufkin’s not dead.

As the night grows deeper, you keep jerking awake thinking Snufkin had called out, or died. The dread is exhausting, the worrying, and the _not knowing._ It’s horribly unJoxterish, something you manage to find time to be a little bitter about, too.

Come morning you’re too tired to think, and Snufkin’s grown quiet. You hope he hasn’t died.

You’re somewhere unfamiliar, far away from your nest, across a mountain where you’d glimpsed the ocean glittering in the distance in one of your more awake moments, when the creature begins to slow. White flowers blossom everywhere, drip in waterfalls and bunches. It’d be beautiful, someplace you’d gladly make a nest, if not for the splashes of what you at some point had bafflingly identified as ink everywhere and gouges in trees and earth.

As the creature stalks further into the flowers, you realize it _is_ a nest. A Joxter nest, with harmonicas hanging and packs piled up from unfortunate Snufkins. You spot the red hat of one Joxter peeking over the edge of a canoe before something much, much more horrible arrests your attention.

“Bendy!” A very familiar voice cries out, and your Snufkin — _your Snufkin —_ rushes right over to the creature. Everything stalls, and you can’t breathe. The creature drops you and Snufkin, only to bowl over your Snufkin.

“No!” You gasp, already envisioning the creature tearing him apart. But it’s just nuzzling him, tongue licking a streak of black across his face as he smiles and smiles and pets it. There’s so much wrong about this situation, you don’t know where to start.

“Don’t mind them,” the other Joxter says, voice a deep purr. He’s sat up and is taking in both you and Snufkin, who lays curled in on himself. You ignore the Joxter to check that he’s not dead. He immediately clings to you, face tear-stained and bloody, and you feel a pang of guilt that you’d rather be holding your Snufkin, keeping him away from that creature.

“Bendy, darling, why have you brought a Snufkin and, from his appearance, Happy’s father?”

You bristle at the idea of Snufkin being named, but it’s the smallest issue. “Get that thing away from him.”

The Joxter shrugs. “Bendy does what he wants.”

“Yeah, and kinda rude t’ call me a _thing_ ,” a high-pitched, laughing voice adds. You look back, only to find something small and cute in your Snufkin’s arms instead of the nightmare from before. It’s not the first time you’ve heard of shapeshifters, but this aspect of its being does nothing to quell its wrongness. Since you can’t hold your Snufkin right now, you hold the smaller one closer.

“I got ‘em for ya, Jox,” Bendy continues. “I felt bad sayin’ ya can’t have Happy, so went and found a Snufkin all by myself. That other guy was a surprise, though, let me tell ya. Who’d a thunk I’d find someone who smells just like Happy. Didn’t realize he was his dad.”

The Joxter made a thoughtful hum, though his pale brown eyes are still locked on you.

“I’m dreadfully sorry,” he apologizes, and it sounds pandering and fake. You hate him instantly more than you’ve hated any other Joxter. “Your son was just so lovely, we had to partake. I’m sure you know how it is. If I could, well, I’d do it much the same, but perhaps I’d have let you enjoy him first. It’s only polite.”

Your eyes widen as you realize he’s apologizing for taking your Snufkin, not for the kidnapping. And assuming you wanted to do the same thing. You don’t know where to begin unpacking everything wrong with his words.

“I thought you were my papa,” your Snufkin interrupts, leaving Bendy to draw closer to the three of you.

“You can have multiple papas, dear,” the Joxter explains so gently, so kindly, you want to kill him.

“Oh,” he says simply. You can’t stand the vague, unfocused look in his dark eyes, the bruising and cuts littering his arms and legs. He’s not wearing any trousers, and it disgusts you to think why.

“Snufkin—“

“My name’s Happy.”

You bite your tongue. He’s confused. He’s hurt. “Dear,” you say instead, before realizing you don’t know what to say. “What have they done to you?”

“Oh, lots of things. Things I need done. Bendy takes good care of me.” He nods fervently, as though by sheer willpower he’ll convince you it’s true.

“Mrph,” the Joxter says, a sound somewhere between a pained cough and clearing his throat. “Bendy’s gotten rather possessive of Happy, I’m afraid. I don’t know if he’ll let you enjoy him, but we do have this sweet Snufkin in your arms.”

You look down at Snufkin.

“Papa,” he whispers, paws clinging to your coat, tail curled up tight. “I’m frightened.”

“I know, dear.”

The Joxter comes a little closer and kneels in front of you two. When he reaches out to touch Snufkin, Snufkin flinches away and hides his face against your scarf. “I’ve never heard of a Joxter playing that sort of game with multiple Snufkins.”

“What do you mean?” You ask warily.

“Happy was very insistent also that you were safe. That you didn’t want him, didn’t want to hurt him —“

“I _don’t_. It’s sick what you do with Snufkins.”

The Joxter starts to speak, but is interrupted by a phlegmatic cough that spatters blood on you and Snufkin. “Excuse me — the weather, you know — but you don’t have to pretend anymore. You can enjoy this Snufkin properly. Bendy won’t let him get away.”

“Snufkin,” you call out to yours.

“Happy,” he corrects.

“.... _Happy_ , come here.” You stand and help Snufkin to his feet. He’s pallid and sways woozily. You don’t know how much blood he’s lost, or if he’s simply overcome by the shock of the situation. When your Snufkin comes near, you take his hand and plan to march both of them right out of the clearing. You don’t account for how quickly Bendy can transform and block your path.

“No need to be so greedy,” the Joxter says. “We can share that little one, and it’s really for the best that Happy stays with Bendy. I don’t want you killed for something so silly as a Snufkin.”

As though in agreement, Bendy makes a wet growling sound and stalks a step closer. It’d be so easy for it to kill you right now. The threat of it hangs in the air. Your Snufkin breaks free of your grip to go to him, finally realizing you were going to take him away from Bendy.

“I don’t want to leave! You can’t make me!” Your Snufkin says, glaring at you. It twists up your heart something awful.

“You don’t have to, dear,” the Joxter says. “Your papa’s just confused. He doesn’t know how things work here.”

You retreat, much as it pains you to, to better assess the situation. The Joxter scoots to the side, inviting you into the pile of fluff in the canoe. You weigh the benefits of playing into his delusion. You need time to get your Snufkin safely away. Joxters aren’t known for planning, and it’s a very foreign concept to you as much as any other. You’ll pretend, for now. Somehow. The other option is death.

You accept it as though you’re not reviled by the Joxter’s very existence, and place yourself between Snufkin and him. The Joxter reaches across you to touch Snufkin’s ash-colored hair, and you swat his paw away.

“So possessive,” the Joxter purrs, right into your ear. He’s far, far too close. It makes you shiver. “He is a very pretty one.”

“I need bandages. He’s hurt.”

The Joxter doesn’t move. Your eyes drift restlessly to your Snufkin, who’s now decorating the strange, flat horns of the creature with flowers. Snufkin’s watching them too. He doesn’t know yet to be afraid of the Joxter much nearer.

“They really do love each other.”

“No, they don’t. You — you broke him.” Your stomach churns just thinking of what the Joxter could have done to him, what that Bendy thing did. He must have endured so much.

“He took a while, but came around,” the Joxter agrees amiably. “You should be proud. He’s such a lovely Snufkin, all thin and dark and pale.”

“I hate you,” you can’t help but to say. It’s hard not to keep your tongue seeing your Snufkin like this.

“That’s fair. I did take what’s yours. But do consider staying, when you stop hating me. It’d be so nice to have a fellow Joxter around.”

You don’t immediately shoot down his suggestion, as you still need to bide time, protect Snufkin, save your Snufkin. So long as he’s being friendly he’s not a danger, you hope.

“You want to start a nest?”

The Joxter’s eyes lit up. “If you insist. My last nest was, shall we say, less than understanding.”

“Some are like that,” you say numbly, absolutely sure you’re both talking about very different things. But you can use this. You hug Snufkin close. He’s probably listening to every word you say. “I was kicked out of my nest.”

“Of course you were,” the Joxter sighs, and you can smell old blood. “They just don’t appreciate cleverness.”

“You’re very clever. Getting a… creature like Bendy to help you.” You glance at your Snufkin. He’s smiling and laughing and it sounds so _wrong_. You can’t stop thinking about what they did to him.

“Thank you. Bendy’s like us, he knows how to appreciate Snufkins.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, it’s quite beautiful, watching him tear them limb from limb, or fuck them through, until they’re broken in half and their lovely innards are spilling out everywhere. And when he eats — it’s practically euphoric. And they’re so wonderful through it all, screaming, begging, bleeding everywhere —“

“I see what you mean,” you interrupt quickly. You’re going to be sick, and the Joxter’s hardness you can feel through his coat (he really is too close) only worsens it.

He looks at you with a nauseating fondness and strokes your cheek. Your whiskers tremble at the gentle touch, but at least he’s not touching Snufkin.

“Oh!” Your Snufkin cries out, causing you to jerk up.

You expect to see him torn apart, broken like a porcelain doll, and you’re not sure if what you’re seeing is any better. At least he’s alive, you suppose, but he’s splayed under Bendy’s monstrous form, legs whorishly and eagerly spread, hiked up over Bendy’s bony hips as it thrusts in and out of him with a long, tapered dick.

Your breath quickens and you feel lightheaded, a disbelieving huff of laughter dying quickly. Your son’s being fucked by a monster. He’s enjoying it. Welcoming it. Mere feet away. He’s being fucked by a demon. No. Nonono. This isn’t what you wanted for him. He should be free, unmolested, left to his own solitary Snufkin life. Not this. Never this.

“We mightn’t be allowed to touch,” the Joxter says, “but what a pleasant show. He used to cry so much during our lovemaking.”

He’s not crying now. You can’t stop watching as Bendy’s tongue slithers into your Snufkin’s mouth, as he moans and arches up to meet him, ink under his nails where he claws at Bendy’s forelegs, ink splattered over his coat, his thighs, his face. His eyes are wide and feverish.

“You’re hurting me, Papa,” a voice says so quietly you almost miss it in your horror. You rip your eyes away from the scene and look down. Snufkin’s own eyes are wide with terror, directed at _you_. You realize too late you’ve been gripping him harder and harder, and quickly release him. The movement draws the Joxter’s attention.

“I wonder if we could repeat the process with your little friend there.”

Snufkin trembles. What a horrific life. If this was really living. You won’t allow it.

“He’s mine.”

“Of course, dear. You’ve worked very hard to gain his trust, I imagine.” He’s touching your face again, stroking back strands of dark hair, tracing along your whiskers. “Having to pretend you care about his feelings, reining in that urge to hit him, to make him cower beautifully before you force his legs open. He even calls you papa already.” The Joxter’s wistful sigh is ruined by another coughing fit. He stinks of decay, and you want away from him. You want Snufkin away from here. You want your Snufkin even farther away. Somewhere safe.

“You don’t have to pretend anymore, though. You can treat him how he’s meant to be treated.”

Before you realize it, he’s yanked Snufkin across your lap and swallowed his pained cry. Snufkin’s struggling against his fingers twisted in his hair, and you get an elbow to the gut. When you pull the Joxter off of him, he just laughs.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself. He was looking so wonderfully betrayed.” He sits back. “Why don’t you enjoy him? I don’t mind watching.” His pale eyes drift momentarily toward Bendy and your Snufkin rutting animalistically. When you hesitate, his gaze turns sly and he adds, “Or I could enjoy him and you could watch.”

You wonder, briefly, if he knows how you actually feel, that you do care, and he’s mocking you. He doesn’t seem entirely present, but that could be a deception like your own. You know what he expects you to do. What any normal Joxter would do to a Snufkin. If you don’t —

“I prefer to just sleep with them,” you try. You can’t do this.

”Nonsense. What a waste that’d be. Go on, dear, you don’t need to pretend with  _me_.”

You look at your Snufkin. That fate is worse than anything you could do to a Snufkin, you tell yourself. You need to save him. You need the chance to. That creature, Bendy, tips the scales too much. You need time.

Snufkin’s face scrunches up in ugly anticipation when you try to kiss him. It’s nothing like before, when he was flushed and happy and soft. Now he’s all knotted up, and smells like blood and fear. You lay him back gently, ever aware of the Joxter’s eyes on your every move, and wish desperately you could apologize, could explain. If the Joxter suspects you, nobody’s going to escape. Nobody’s going to escape unscathed anyway. You push up his coat.

“Don’t,” Snufkin says, paws fisted and pressed against his mouth. There’s some smeared blood you don’t think is from him. How vile it must be to be kissed by the Joxter. How vile it will be what you’re about to do.

You have to do this, you tell yourself. For your Snufkin. You can’t save your son if you’re killed. You can’t save Snufkin. You can’t save yourself. You’re struck by the thought that you can’t save anyone.

His pants slip down easily, and you bunch them at his boots. It’s messy but it’s impossible to maneuver in the canoe, with the Joxter right at your elbow. Snufkin’s length is flaccid, and he closes his knees protectively. His tail is a stark black wrapped around his thigh. You have to do this. He asks you so, so quietly not to.

You try to think of your image of him before, when you thought you’d be with him under starry skies, not in another Joxter’s nest. You can’t not think about where you’re at, what you’re doing.

“What’s wrong?” The Joxter asks.

“Nothing,” you bite back. It’s just sex. Your paw rubs at Snufkin’s groin and you remember the first time you’d ever caught a Snufkin, as a part of a fairly large nest. You’d done the Joxterish thing and tormented and raped him. He’d been a small Snufkin, too, with blond hair and the prettiest green eyes. He had no idea what Joxters did to Snufkins, just because they were Snufkins, and had willingly entered the nest only to be betrayed. You’d never gotten over that, and you imagined it was worse for that Snufkin. This is too similar. Snufkin trusted you.

He doesn’t get hard, despite your efforts, so you brutally palm yourself until you are. Don’t think, don’t think. It’s hard to keep an erection. Your Snufkin’s moaning and this one’s breath is hitching in fear. You need this over and done with.

“I need —“ as though reading your mind (though probably from experience raping Snufkins), the Joxter leans out of the canoe and returns with that strange, gooey ink that comprises Bendy’s form. It’s acrid and stings a little, and you’re sure it can’t be good to use but soon your fingers disappear inside Snufkin. You have to do this.

The rape takes a long, long time, longer than it actually is, but it’s so difficult, and Snufkin’s _crying_ , and you want to apologize, you want to explain, but the Joxter’s breathing heavily inches away, his paw up under his coat. You don’t kiss Snufkin, you don’t stroke his quivering thighs or hair or any of the things you’d imagined doing to him before. You fuck him until you’re limp, not even sure if you came, then pull back and resist the urge to punch the Joxter when he coos how lovely Snufkin looks.

You take it in as penance for what you did to him. His coat is rumpled up around his ribs, ink and blood smear across his thighs, his pants around his boots. His face is splotchy with tears, eyes squeezed shut. He looks awful. You made him like that, of your own accord. He looks just like that first Snufkin.

The Joxter’s petting you again, talking about how nice seeing that was. You don’t stop him.

Then you realize Happy’s watching you, too, eyes bright and curious. How much had he seen?

“Snuf—“

“Happy,” the Joxter mutters.

“Dear, I —“

“Do you like him better than me?” Your Snufkin interrupts. Words fail you as you try to equate what just happened with _liking_ someone, but he isn’t done. “I sort of remember you, and you never fucked me. Did you not like me? Bendy likes me. He likes me a lot. More than other Snufkins.” He giggles in a way you’d describe as deranged if it wasn’t your own Snufkin.

“I do love you,” you say, and it sounds so strange to. You don’t think you ever had before, and certainly never imagined saying it across the hyperventilating body of a Snufkin you just raped. The Joxter watches your exchange with a large smile, enjoying, most likely, the chaos he’s clearly helped sow. “I love you,” you repeat, feeling suddenly bone-weary, and you don’t know if you’re saying it to your son or Snufkin. Maybe you’re just saying it to the air, something to fill the quiet other than Snufkin’s sniffling.

Your Snufkin seems to accept that answer, though he’s still at the edge of the canoe, watching you thoughtfully. The Joxter curls up on the opposite end of the canoe, leaving you with Snufkin. You watch him until you’re sure he’s asleep, which happens fast for any Joxter, and lay down next to Snufkin.

He tries to pull away, but gives up when there’s nowhere to go. You think of that blond Snufkin, and don’t bother trying to explain anything. It’s best for Snufkins to fear Joxters, every Joxter, including you because you’re the worst of them. But you do apologize. Over and over, you whisper “I’m sorry” into his shoulder. It doesn’t make you feel any better, and doesn’t stop his shivering and fluttering breath, but you say it.

You can feel your Snufkin’s eyes on you.


	3. Chapter 3

You wake up to the Joxter raping Snufkin. Without thinking you pry him off, and he melts against you instead, flushed and excited. Better you than Snufkin, you remind yourself. Snufkin’s crying pathetically, paws tied this time, mouth gagged with his own scarf, and an eye swollen. You hope he hurt the Joxter badly.

“What did you do to him?” You demand, causing him to pull back.

You examine Snufkin’s face and loosen his paws. He immediately tries to gouge out your eyes, and would have succeeded if not for the Joxter’s intervention. He quickly ties Snufkin’s paws again. He has scratches on his face and neck.

The Joxter doesn’t bother to explain what’s plainly obvious, and instead crawls back into his side of the nest. “Snufkins can be so ungrateful,” he says, then waits.

Oh, right. You’re supposed to be like him. It’s hard to put yourself into his mindset, but you’re already a rapist. “A shame.”

“I suggest you keep him tied up.”

You nod, checking for your Snufkin. He’s laying beneath a tree, half-shadowed, half lit by silvered moonlight. Bendy is in his arms. He does look beautiful in sleep, if tragically broken. You hate what’s been done to him, how he’s been twisted and tortured into this parody of a Snufkin. But he recognized you, however warped his views now are. There’s hope.

The Joxter’s gone back to sleep, clothing still rumpled from his tryst with Snufkin. You, again, are struck with the urge to kill him, though you know you can’t. You’re too unlike other Joxters. Instead, you need to get the others safely away. Fast. You can’t do this any longer. You shouldn’t have done it for this long, though you know, _you know_ it would have ended with Bendy killing you if you’d acted any sooner.

Bendy’s beetle-black eyes are latched onto you. It’s not even blinking. It unnerves you, so you turn your attention to Snufkin. You hate seeing him tied up.

“I need you to be calm,” you murmur against his ear. “Can you trust me, just for now?”

You know Snufkin doesn’t have any other choice, he needs an ally, but wait for him to realize this too. He nods. You untie him and this time he’s quiet. His eyes flicker toward the edge of the canoe.

“That thing’s out there,” you sigh, keeping your voice barely audible. He’s letting you hold him, which makes talking easier. “We can’t leave yet.”

As though intuiting who you meant by we, Snufkin whispers, “That Snufkin—“

“My son.”

“There’s something too wrong with him. You can’t save him.”

You make an upset noise low in your throat, but don’t say anything, because Snufkin’s just voicing your own concerns. But you can’t leave him here. There’s no telling what they do to him normally. You’ve already seen too much. You have to believe if he’s somewhere safe, with someone who cares for him, that he can recover. You know your relationship is odd in the world of Snufkins and Joxters, so Snufkin wouldn’t understand.

So you don’t explain. Instead, you hold Snufkin and sleep fitfully, curled protectively around him so nobody else can touch him. Occasionally you find yourself awake throughout the night, and hope Bendy’s gone to sleep. It never does. When you wake up in the morning, the Joxter’s watching you curiously.

“You must have a silver tongue,” he says.

You grunt in question. Snufkin stirs but doesn’t wake. You don’t blame him for wanting to hide in sleep.

“He’s not fighting you. What did you tell him?”

“Lies.” You’re thankful he’s asleep to not hear this.

The Joxter laughs, and it devolves into a wheezing, wet cough. He can’t die fast enough.

You turn your attention away from the Joxter, scanning for your Snufkin. He’s gone, and so is Bendy.

“They entertain themselves,” the Joxter offers. “It’s just the three of us. What say we enjoy that Snufkin?”

“He’s sleeping.”

“Enviable,” the Joxter purrs, crawling closer. “Shall we disturb him?”

You can’t force yourself onto Snufkin again, and don’t want the Joxter touching him at all. Instinctively you put yourself between the two of them, arresting the Joxter’s movement. You need to say something. “I have questions.”

“I imagine you do.” The Joxter stops well into your personal space.

“What is Bendy?”

“A demon.”

“What did you do to my son?” You try, and fail, to not sound accusatory.

“I’m sure he’d love to tell you himself. These questions are boring.” The Joxter’s fingers touch your cheek, trail down and along your jaw. Your mouth twitches up into an involuntary, nervous smile.

“Why do you keep touching me?” Your final question, unplanned for.

“You look so much like Happy,” the Joxter says, voice quiet and thoughtful. “He really is a unique Snufkin. He smiles when he’s nervous, too. Why are you nervous?”

“You’re… you’re comparing me to a Sn—“ your words are smothered under a kiss, and it’s as gross and thick as you’d suspected. You jerk back, half onto Snufkin who wakes up, and the Joxter comes with you, his paws roaming your throat and chest beneath your scarf. You freeze until he backs off.

“Oh look, Snufkin’s awake. Hello, dear.”

Whatever that was that had possessed the Joxter to kiss you passes, and his interest is now fully locked onto Snufkin, who scrambles away. The Joxter reaches around you and grabs his leg.

There’s the flash of a knife. Snufkin screams and immediately crumples, paws wrapped around his ankle. The stink of blood fills the air. It leaks from around his fingers into the fluff of the nest. His tail lashes frantically.

You’d forgotten how unreasonably cruel other Joxters could be, how quick to react when so inclined. He’d just crippled Snufkin, something awful to do to such a free creature, and that’s exactly why he did it. The shock must be plain on your face, because the Joxter wipes his knife on your coat and shrugs.

“We all have our methods, dear.”

“He needs help. So he lasts,” you remember belatedly to add on. With how capricious the Joxter’s moods are, you don’t doubt he’d easily turn his knife on you. It’s like playing with fire — a lazy, lapping flame.

“Mmm, there’s probably something in the packs. Why don’t you go get them?”

You’ve never felt like a Snufkin before now, with the Joxter’s amber eyes wide and excited resting on you. Snufkin does need medical aid, but that’d leave him with the Joxter. Snufkin’s looking at you desperately, not wanting to be left alone, but he has a sheen of sweat and his lips are worryingly pale.

“I’m fine with fucking a corpse,” the Joxter says. “He’ll be lovely either way to me. Ah, you’re smiling again.”

You’re over the edge of the canoe and scanning for the packs immediately. There are so many, an amount that settles heavy in your stomach, but that must mean there’s medical supplies in some of them. The shifting inside the canoe almost makes you sick, but you focus on digging through the packs, shaking them out and rifling through the lives of Snufkins long dead.

Nothing. Nothing. Snufkin’s making pained, whistling cries, and there’s a muffled, rhythmic thudding. Nothing. Why are so many of these empty of bandages, antiseptics, anything you can use? There’s not even a knife to be found.

You finally find a flask of what smells like palm wine, and make do with shredding some bandages from the packs themselves.

The Joxter has fallen asleep on top of Snufkin, whose legs are splayed wide, pants cut. He’s sniffling.

“Get off,” you mutter to the Joxter, wishing you had the strength to kill him. It’d be so easy, you know. But to kill another person… And you still need to save your Snufkin, though you can’t help but think of what’s been done to this one as a result of that need.

He rolls off, grumbling, and you see he’d splashed seed all across Snufkin’s belly and thighs. You pull down his coat and help him out of the canoe. He leans so heavily against you he’s practically dead weight. He won’t last much longer if this is how the Joxter works. You decide then to get him away. You’ll come back for your Snufkin later.

“Hey, Foxy,” Bendy says. “Whatcha doin’?”

You tense up and turn around. Your Snufkin and Bendy are on the other side of the nest, several fish in paw. Snufkin’s soaked.

“He’s hurt.”

“You should tell Papa,” your Snufkin says. “When I get hurt (and I get hurt a lot), he takes care of me.”

You glance at the pile of clothes that is the Joxter. “He’s the one who hurt him.”

Your Snufkin giggles, not the reaction you were hoping for. The Snufkin you knew would be confused and horrified by the idea. “Snufkins are meant to be hurt.”

You don’t know how to respond to that, so lower Snufkin to the ground, blocking your view of the others with the canoe. They talk and joke and every laugh from your Snufkin is piercing and cracked.

You focus on the Snufkin in front of you, peel away his boot to expose a black paw coated in blood. He’s barely responding anymore, and you worry he’s gone into shock. Quickly you wipe down the wound — you can see the muscle bunched up at his calf, tendon cut and paw limp.You can’t image the pain he must be in. You do what you can so he doesn’t bleed out, then look to the old injuries from Bendy’s teeth. They’re yellowed with infection, crusted with blood, and sit all along his outer thighs, arms, and chest. You do what you can for those, too. It doesn’t feel like nearly enough.

You don’t even apologize anymore. Words can’t convey the knot in your guts at what’s been done, what will be done if you don’t get him away.

You don’t want to leave your Snufkin, but know you’ll have to.

“Papa?” Your Snufkin asks. You start. He moves so quietly — you taught him that. And it hadn’t helped him. “Do you know how to start a fire? I can’t —“ he breaks off, a distraught bit of laughter escaping. It hurts in your heart to see him reduced to something so pathetic he can’t even light a fire.

“I need to take care of Snufkin,” you say, though you don’t know what else you can do for him. Make him comfortable.

“I can,” your Snufkin offers. “Please, Papa. I got us fish, and last time Bendy fed it to me raw I got sick. Papa— my real papa— he says it needs to be cooked.”

You reach out and run your fingers through your Snufkin’s hair. It’s oily and knotted, like he hasn’t been taking care of himself. How anyone could break Snufkins so badly they lose all independence, all ability to function on their own escapes you. It’s unfathomable.  “I’m your real papa, Snufkin.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t love me, or call me by my name, or hurt me, or any of the things a papa’s supposed to do.”

You look at Snufkin, whose teeth are gritted and eyes squeezed shut. He’s cold, clammy in your arms. You can’t leave with Bendy so near, with your Snufkin breathing down your neck. A fire would do him good.

“If he stops breathing, call for me,” you say. That’s simple enough instruction for even him. “Do you understand… Happy?”

Your Snufkin — Happy — lights up at the use of his name. You hate yourself. He nods enthusiastically.

“That’s all you have to do.”

“Yes, Papa.”

Bendy’s playing with one of the dead fish when you approach, making a fishy face at it and mimicking its mouth movements as it squeezes the jaw open and closed, open and closed.

“Took ya long enough. I hope you’re more competent than your kid.”

Bendy’s mere presence is an affront to your senses, and you can’t bring yourself to talk to it like it’s a person. You focus on starting the fire, instead. It’s easy, thoughtless action.

“Hey, hey, Foxy. Foxy Papa, hey,” Bendy says until you’re forced to look over. It’s holding a fish head right next to your face, one finger jammed into the pulpy mess where it had once been attached to the body. Bendy wiggles it up and down. “I named him Mister Bubbles.”

You frown.

“C’mon, Happy woulda found that hilarious. Guess he didn’t get his humor from _you_.”

You turn back to the embers trying to catch on the kindling and feathered wood.

“Is it true?”

The fire’s rising, smoke billowing.

“I’m talkin’ to ya, Foxy. Is it true?”

“Is _what_ true?”

“That Joxters like t’ torture Snufkins. Like t’ fuck their own kids.”

“Yes,” you say shortly, hoping that ends the conversation.

“Hah, wow. What a fucked up world this is. I ain’t met any of you except for Jox — oh, and that one I killed that we’re pretending was a Snufkin. Wasn’t sure if that was just his take on things.”

You take the revelation that Bendy’s killed Joxters before in stride. It doesn’t surprise you, given what you’ve seen of it. An indiscriminate murderer. You’re no safer than Snufkins. “It’s true. He’s worse than most, though,” you can’t help but to add.

“Hah, I bet. I was real surprised when I first met him. Was fuckin’ this Snufkin to death in a quagmire, and he just saunters up and sticks his dick in the kid’s mouth. Easy as pie, not the least bit afraid of me.”

You wish it’d shut up. You suspected this Joxter was especially awful, too much for most Joxters, when he talked about necrophilia. That he’d rape a dying Snufkin, that he didn’t have the sense to properly fear a demon, only furthers your resolve to get the Snufkins away from here.

“He’s a great guy,” Bendy continues. “You’ll love bein’ in a whatchamacallit, a nest with him. Knows how to find all kinds of Snufkins, knows how to really party.”

“Why my Snufkin?”

“Why not? Joxter thought he was real cute, and he laughs at my jokes. He laughs at anything, really, but I appreciate the gesture. He’s mine now, though, not yours, ‘n’ I don’t share.”

You feed more sticks to the fire, letting it build. Bendy’s thick, white fingers grab your scarf and with unexpected strength drags you right down to eye-level.

“Mine, got it?” It asks, voice deceptively cheerful. Its teeth are looking a little sharp, though, and the edges of its face are turning more fluid. The sheer wrongness of it, the closeness, freezes you. It could kill you so easily, at the slightest whim, and would feel nothing but pleasure.

You choke out a “yes” and Bendy lets you go.

“Good job on the fire, Foxy.”

“I need to go get Snufkin,” you mutter, climbing weakly to your feet.

“Bye,” Bendy sing-songs, busy poking sticks in the rising flames. The fish it’d decapitated lays forgotten on the ground, already being picked apart by ants.

You circle around the canoe feeling like you’ve just brushed against death. It takes you a moment to process the sight that greets you.

Your Snufkin’s shoving flowers into Snufkin’s mouth, petals sticking to his chin with spit, the flowers pouring out and overstuffed. His paws are on your Snufkin’s arms, curled into his sleeves, but that hasn’t stopped him. It’s such a bizarre scene. Snufkin’s alert, at least, eyes wide. They dart desperately to you.

“What are you doing?”

Your Snufkin pauses. “He was saying bad things. These are prettier.”

You ponder a moment how to handle this, then say, “Thank you.”

He beams and stands up, more flowers falling to his feet. You’re starting to see how he works, you think. He wants to be useful. Snufkins aren’t meant to be useful, they’re meant to just be themselves.

As your Snufkin returns to Bendy, you pick flowers out of Snufkin’s mouth. He coughs and sputters a final few petals.

“Please help me,” he whispers. “Please, Papa. I don’t want to die.”

It’s such an understated sentence, ‘I don’t want to die,’ but you feel in it just how terrified Snufkin is. He needs you to escape. And you know he wants you to leave your Snufkin behind.

You peek over the canoe. The Joxter’s still sleeping, Bendy’s wholly distracted by your Snufkin. They’re dancing around the cooking fish and singing some discordant song off-key and out of sync.

“You’ll have to be very, very quiet no matter how much it hurts, dear,” you whisper. He nods and braces himself as you pick him up in your arms. He’s very small, very light, and in dire need of medical help.

It’s surprisingly easy to just disappear into the forest. As though you could have done it any time, unpursued, before harm fell. You hadn’t, though, because of your Snufkin, and you’re _leaving him behind._ Don’t think about it. Don’t think, just move.

The flowery scent of the trees is overpowering, and you can’t trust your nose to find any source of water or civilization. The best thing to do is keep moving and hope to find either.

You travel as far as you can after nearly two days of no food, no water, until you collapse near a clear little brook with tiny silvery fish. Gratefully you drink and help Snufkin drink, then wash his wounds. Every moment is clear agony for him, but the water brings some color back to his cheeks, soothes the red heat of his injuries.

You left your son behind. You left him.

“Papa, _don’t_ ,” Snufkin says, catching your scarf when you stand, ready to slink right back into the den of the monster. Even after what you’ve done to him, he’s calling you papa. He’s such an intuitive Snufkin, wise, but you can’t listen to him now. His voice is strained and weak with pain. “ _I_ need you now.”

“I know, dear.“

“They’re not going to kill him. They haven’t yet. They _want_ him.”

“You can’t know that,” you say, trying to sound reasonable, but the idea of your Snufkin dying makes your voice tremble. “My Snufkin —“

“He’s not your Snufkin anymore! Please, please, please don’t leave me.” Tears have come to his eyes again. His words are, horribly, swaying you. Your Snufkin didn’t even consider you his real father. You’d never been the best father, but you had cared about him, had raised him to be cautious and clever. And all that has been undone. “We need to keep going,” Snufkin prompts at your silence. You don’t move. “Joxter, can you help me up? I’ll go on if you won’t.”

That shakes you from your internal struggle. Snufkin is in no condition to walk, or even drag himself. You can’t be there for both him and your Snufkin. You have to decide now.

“I’m so sorry,” you tell Snufkin. “I can’t leave him behind. They’ll hurt him, they might kill him because we left.”

“They _won’t_ ,” Snufkin says desperately. “We don’t have —“ his words die as he looks behind you.

“Papa! There you are! I found them, Bendy!” Your Snufkin’s giggle is like a knife. “What are you doing all the way out here?” He asks, as though he hadn’t just killed one or both of you. Snufkin gives a faint, animal whine.

Bendy steps through the trees, tall and monstrous, festooned in flowers that have stuck to its body. The Joxter’s at its hind leg, rubbing sleep from his eyes and looking a little winded. “Whatever are you doing out here?” He asks, echoing your Snufkin’s question.

No lies come to your tongue.

“Oh, dear. Were you trying to save him?” The Joxter tuts. “What a shame. I was so looking forward to breaking in our nest today. What kind of Joxter are you? Bendy, darling.” Bendy’s head turns to regard him, and he makes sure to speak louder. “I think he needs our help. Could you hold him?”

Bendy oozes toward you and tendrils of ink yank you away from Snufkin. He’s left alone like some morbid tableau that the Joxter approaches.

“No, don’t, please—” Snufkin gasps, dragging himself away, into the water. The Joxter steps lightly on his injured leg, freezing his actions, then presses. Snufkin shrieks.

When you try to speak, ink slaps across your mouth, and you taste it bitter and sharp on your tongue.

Like this, you watch the Joxter rape Snufkin. Your Snufkin is, sickeningly, also watching with rapt attention from between Bendy’s large front paws. Sometimes you look away, but you feel like you’re abandoning Snufkin by doing so. Just hearing the sounds is somehow worse than knowing.

So it’s with tears blurring your vision, splintering the cheerful sunlight that filters down through the trees, through the flowers, that you see Snufkin pulled half out of the water, his coat lifted, the Joxter rutting against him bestally.

You jerk and twist and do anything to free yourself, but Bendy only winds more ink around you.

“I’m sure, dear,” the Joxter tells Snufkin, breath huffing, “That your head is full of all sorts of wrongs about how Joxters are, lies he’s told you. How cruel he’s been, my poor beautiful Snufkin. I’m an honest Joxter, though. I don’t pretend to be something I’m not. I’ll treat you right.” Snufkin shoves weakly at him, until he hits him, once, sharp. Then he resumes his thrusting as though nothing had happened. The slap of skin, the harsh intake and exhalation of breath, are the only sounds for a few moments before he speaks again.

“Snufkins, you see, need to be hurt. How else can you be appreciated, how else can you be as lovely as possible? We Joxters just want you to be loved, you know. You cry and whine and beg, but we know what you need. Isn’t that right, Happy?”

“Yes, Papa,” your Snufkin says without hesitation.

Snufkin wails, high and thin, as the Joxter finishes and pulls out. There’s blood on the Joxter’s dick, blood between Snufkin’s legs. The Joxter cups Snufkin’s face and plants whiskery kisses all over. “Will you break for me as nicely as Happy? Would you do that for your papa?”

Snufkin says nothing, and the Joxter’s paws slide down his chest, down his legs, and catches his tail about midway down. He plays with it gently, as gently as you had what feels like a different lifetime ago. “You’re already so trusting and silly, I’m sure you’d be wonderful, but…” he trails off, eyes sliding to you. “I can only fix one of you, I think. Too much effort for both.” He flips Snufkin’s tail this way and that thoughtfully.

“You are really so, so lovely, my dear,” the Joxter says finally, stroking Snufkin’s face again. You realize he’s going to kill _you_ , and you’re almost relieved. If Snufkin’s alive, he can escape. He can survive. “Such pale coloring, such pleasant noises. Bendy, if you would?”

At its name Bendy’s stance changes, and the question is all it needs to bound over your Snufkin, lean over the Joxter, and dig  its teeth into Snufkin’s soft belly. Snufkin’s screaming is cut short as the second bite crunches through ribs, tears open his lungs. Blood spatters as far as you, and you’re too shocked to utilize the slackened bindings. The Joxter’s coated in a fount of it, dangerously close to the feast. His paw is up under his coat again, working vigorously.

You stumble toward Snufkin like anything you do could save him, and fall to your knees. Underneath the wet smacking of chewing he’s burbling up blood. His eyes are unfocused, looking up at the canopy of flowers. Your Snufkin’s attention hasn’t wavered. He’s enraptured by the scene. You vomit.

The eating lasts an eternity, then, suddenly, there’s nothing left of Snufkin but blood and his thin tail still in the Joxter’s grasp.

“Shall we head back home?” The Joxter asks as though nothing had happened. As though he’d not just ordered the brutal execution of an innocent Snufkin.

Bendy shrinks back into its smaller form and allows your Snufkin to pick it up. The Joxter puts a paw under your arm and drags you to your feet. “Come along now, dear. You’ve caused enough trouble for today.”

Numbly, you let him lead you back to the nest and settle you in it, this time with rope around your paws and feet. Any thoughts of saving your Snufkin stall as you try to process what had just happened. He _told_ you Bendy ate people, but you hadn’t really believed it until you saw it.

That should have been you.

“Why?”

The Joxter takes that as invitation to crawl on top of you, shoving you down and straddling your waist. “Why Snufkin and not you?” He asks, pointlessly as he continues without waiting for a response. “I don’t know, myself. He was sweet and perfect, wasn’t he? But I suppose I do want a nest. And you’re lovely, too, in your own way. There will be other Snufkins. I’ll teach you how to appreciate them.”

The idea that Snufkins are so replaceable renews your fear for your Snufkin’s life. It could just as easily be him Bendy decides to eat next. You failed once.

The Joxter is hard against you. You twist around, trying to get some leverage to throw him off, but all it does is make him moan. He catches your face between his paws and drags you in for a kiss as he grinds against your stomach. You try not to grant him entry, but his tongue licks across your teeth, foul-tasting and slimy. When he’s finished he leans back.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he says gently, thumb ghosting over your lips. “You’re just like Happy, you don’t know how things should be. What a strange Joxter you are. Now open your mouth, dear.”

You press your lips tighter shut, even as he scoots up your body and lifts his coat, revealing his dick. It’s two-toned and flush and you’re instantly nauseated.

“Think about Happy,” he coos. You have been. You can’t not. You can hear him even now, outside the canoe, and he feels worlds away. “Think what might happen to him if you don’t.”

“What?”

“I want to help you, dearest, but if you’re going to be difficult, well…” From this angle he looks towering and cruel. Cruel enough to kill Snufkins, to break them. You open your mouth a little, and that’s all he needs. He forces his way in, and is soon fucking you.

You close your eyes, trying to ignore the sour taste on your tongue, the way your head thuds gently against the side of the canoe with each thrust. The Joxter is braced on the edge of the canoe, and his grunts of exertion and the slick suction of his dick in your mouth are the only sounds echoing in your head. Your mind is invaded by the image of him raping Snufkin, the fleshy sounds so similar, and it tangles up horribly with what what’s happening now. Snufkin endured these pungent scents and violations. Then he died. You let him die.

The Joxter pulls out and finishes on your face with a few final tugs on his length. You cringe away from the spattering warm seed, feel like you’re being marked. Your mouth aches.

“Why are you crying?” He asks innocently. “Surely you’ve missed having another Joxter around too. We’re not meant to be alone.”

You hadn’t been alone. You’d had Snufkin. Until they kidnapped him, killed him. You say nothing.

The Joxter wipes your face clean, then nuzzles against you. Soon, he’s asleep, warm and musty and heavy on you. Your arms are going numb.

You can hear your Snufkin moving around beyond the canoe, and as his murmurs and shifting gives way to disgustingly wanton moans mingled with a wet _lapping_ , you squeeze your eyes shut. You wish you could cover your ears.

This is how you spend the second day with the Joxter, Bendy, and — you hate to think it, but know Snufkin was right, he’s not yours anymore — Happy.


	4. Chapter 4

True to his nature, the Joxter doesn’t do a whole lot. Normally this is something you’d condone, because sleeping is far better than raping Snufkins and killing them, but he insists on sleeping with you, and rutting against you, and petting you like some sort of dog.

That you could tolerate. But he also likes to ask Happy over, and like the good boy he insists he is, Happy comes and tells you all sorts of horrible things. Things you can see the evidence of in stiff fingers, a missing tooth, the odd cadence of his voice from hearing loss. He talks so readily of hurting other Snufkins, of hunting them, raping them, _killing_ them. Your sweet, gentle, asocial Snufkin, a rapist and murderer. Twisted into such a horrific thing. It brings tears to your eyes, but you’re starting to cry less. Tears accomplish nothing, and they don’t even make you feel better because the Joxter likes to lick them.

You want to hold Happy and tell him he doesn’t deserve to be hurt, but even when you’re untied (with the understanding that should you leave, _somebody_ will die, because they don’t realize you won’t leave without your son), Bendy doesn’t like you touching Happy. Only it’s allowed to fuck him, _bite_ him, lick up his blood and fluids. This is demonstrated to you repeatedly, and every time you’re forced to confront the fact that Happy’s been claimed by something so far beyond your power to save him from. So you endure, or try to.

Once, you punch the Joxter when he tries to lift your coat during one of Happy’s rapes (you refuse to think of it as anything but; you know him, he wouldn’t want this), and suddenly Happy’s appreciative noises turn to pained gasping and cries that it hurts _it hurts_. Bendy doesn’t stop. It’s looking at you.

You let the Joxter lift your coat. The crying dies down to breathy whimpers. It’s a consolation you cling to as you’re palmed roughly, as you’re worked open and shoved into. The initial horror hasn’t _dulled_ exactly, but it’s becoming the norm. It devastates you to consider this is Happy’s norm, too, and has been for seasons. According to the Joxter, Happy’s been with them for three years, but time’s so fickle, it could have been longer, and does it really matter? You think so, but only for how much pain it causes you to know.

You can’t escape Snufkin, either. Like a phantom his scent lingers in the nest, and you dread when you’re drawn into it by the Joxter. He’s far more gentle with you than he would be with a Snufkin, you know, but it’s no comfort. He thinks you’re like any other Joxter, comfortable being touched and fucked to pass the time. You don’t even know if he realizes you don’t want it. There’s a lot he either doesn’t understand or doesn’t care to understand _correctly._

“I hate you,” you tell him, over and over again. He never grasps that you’re genuine, that it has nothing to do with taking your prey, and everything to do with taking your _son_ , taking Snufkin.

“Of course you do,” he says, paws on your face. “You let Happy go and he was taken and you tried to steal that other Snufkin and I took him too. Perhaps you’re not very good at being a Joxter? You need someone to show you how nice it is to be what you are. After all, dear, you could have been born a Snufkin, and that would be beautifully tragic. I’d love you so much.” He coughs wetly and blood soaks into your scarf.

The next day, you’re tied to a tree and left with Happy. Alone. You know why before it’s even explained: a Snufkin is nearby. The Joxter kisses you goodbye and tasks you to keep an eye on Happy. Bendy cackles and mentions something about a mother, but you try not to listen to it most days.

You’re so tired, you barely acknowledge Happy when he sits down beside you. You hope that Snufkin you scent has the good sense to stay away. He smells crisp and smoky, like winter. Happy used to smell like a light, floral musk — spring creeping into summer. Now he’s dirty and greasy, and his scent is horribly mingled with Bendy’s and the Joxter’s.

“I made you a flower crown, Papa,” he says, placing it on your head. It’s heavy and thick with spring flowers that he’s deftly woven together. He’s never been this demonstrative before, and you dislike the change. It feels unnatural. Beaten into him.

“Thank you, dear,” you mutter. You really should talk to him, talk some sense into him, so rouse yourself. “Happy —“

“Why didn’t you ever rape me?” He interrupts, sounding like he’s about to cry.

“I, what?”

“When you had me, you never touched me, never used me, never, never —“ Then he does start crying. “Didn’t you love me, Papa?”

“Papas who love their sons _don’t_ rape them. Nobody who rapes you loves you.”

Happy shakes his head hard enough that petals from his own crown flutter sadly to the ground. “No, no, _no_. Papa loves me, Bendy loves me. Why don’t you? Why won’t you rape me? Please? I want you to. Doesn’t that make you happy? Here, I’ll help.”

Happy clambers on top of you, ignoring your struggles to get away, your feet digging furrows in the ground but you can’t _move_.

“Snuf — Happy — don’t, don’t, get off!” You try to buck him off, but he’s determined and has the upper hand. He hikes up your coat, reaches into your pants. The last thing in life you’ve ever wanted to feel is your son’s paw on your dick, stroking its flaccid length with unnerving expertise. A sudden flash of all those threats from Bendy about Happy run through your head. You’d rather Bendy kill you than let Happy follow through with this. “Bendy! Joxter! Somebody!” You yell helplessly to the forest.

Wherever they are, they don’t hear you, don’t come rushing to put you out of your misery. And you want to die so, so badly as Happy gets you half hard and forces himself down onto you. It hurts him too, but he relishes the pain with a grit-toothed hiss.

You can’t get air into your lungs, your eyes are wide and horrified, and Happy desperately begins to fuck himself on you, yowling about why you’re not happy, why you don’t love him. You scream again for Bendy, and when you try a third time Happy covers your mouth with his own. It’s less a kiss and more a mashing of teeth and tongue and lips. You taste blood and salty tears, feel his paws clutching at your scarf, scratching furrows in your cheeks.

Happy rides you to the point of agony, getting nothing of what he’s searching for as he occasionally breaks away from you to beg you to love him. You, sobbing and gasping for air, keep assuring him that you do, _you do love him get off getoffgetoff_ , but he doesn’t seem to believe you, and the rape goes on and on and on.

“What on earth is going on?” The Joxter asks, which stops Happy. For a brief moment, relief.

Happy climbs off of you and goes running to Bendy. Hazily you fix your gaze on it. It’s bubbling ink and glaring at you, but Happy immediately distracts it, explaining his plight and how awful you are for not raping him. This is hell. You’re in hell, and it’s baffling, terrifying, pure torture.

You don’t want to see the ruin that is your son, so your gaze slides to the Joxter. Someone small, wearing a mismatched collection of knitted clothes, is peeking out from behind his legs, large dark eyes locked onto Happy. Another Snufkin. You don’t understand why he’s just standing there, but he’s definitely the one you’d scented before.

“Bendy, dear. Please do something about Happy,” the Joxter says, a paw dropping to the Snufkin’s head. “He’s upsetting our new friend.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bendy says, throwing a glare your way that says you’ll be dealt with later. “C’mon, silly, let’s get you calmed down.” It takes Happy by the hand and leads him away. You’re relieved to see him go, and you hate yourself for it. You feel filthy.

“You’re such a mess, dear,” the Joxter says, then speaks kindly to the Snufkin, who you can now see is very, very young. “Why don’t you get comfortable by the fire? Bendy will be back to play with you in a moment.”

“Okay,” the Snufkin says uneasily, tossing a worried glance your way before he settles cross-legged beside the fire.

The Joxter is practically glowing in delight when he squats down next to you. “Isn’t he beautiful?” He asks quietly, breath ghosting over your stinging cheek.

“He’s just a child.” You’re so tired. You can’t see another Snufkin die.

“Yes, like a flower bud. Won’t it be so nice to see him spread his petals and blossom?”

“I’ll do whatever you want. Fuck you, sleep with you, just please don’t,” you say, though you can’t muster the energy to sound desperate.

“Pff, if I say yes, you’ll just pull that line every Snufkin I bring home. No, dear. I think you need to learn how to enjoy Snufkins properly. I bought this one especially for us to share.” He kisses your lips which still taste of Happy’s tears and blood, then approaches the Snufkin.

“Snufkin, run!” You shout, yanking on the ropes. Your wrists are wet and stinging from your earlier struggles. “He’s dangerous! He wants to hurt you!”

Snufkin looks more afraid of you, but you understand — you’re bloody and tear-stained and tied up. The Joxter kneels next to him, whispers something you don’t catch, then gently grabs Snufkin’s elbow.

As though time slows, he shoves Snufkin’s hand into the fire. There’s a pause like Snufkin can’t process what’s just happened, then a shriek. His struggles are easily overpowered by the Joxter, who pulls him away from the fire, over to you. He’s tiny and far too young and absolutely going to die.

“What will make you not do this?”

“Nothing, I’m afraid,” the Joxter says, holding both of Snufkin’s wrists in one hand. His other disappears up under Snufkin’s coat. The old, worn pants tear easily. Snufkin cries in that ugly, messy way children do, not calling for anyone because Snufkins, as a rule, have no one, but upset, in pain, and unable to express it any other way.

“Older Snufkins have an annoying sense of foreboding about this place it seems, but this one was so close I’m surprised you couldn’t scent him.”

Your expression gives away that you had, and the Joxter tuts. “Were you just going to keep it to yourself? My nose isn’t what it used to be, love. I do hope in the future you’re more forthcoming with information.”

You twist against your binds, but they hold fast, and you don’t have the energy to expend. The Joxter’s very interested in you staying alive for reasons you can’t fathom, so you’ve been granted food and water, but not enough. Anything you do won’t be enough.

The Joxter drags Snufkin right to your feet and lifts his coat to show his thin, soft body. He’s shivering and writhing, but the Joxter’s grip on his wrists, on his burnt arm, stills him with a keening whine.

You raise your eyes to the sky like there’s anything in heaven to save you from this. You have no hope of saving the Snufkin, now. This is the fate of any caught by a Joxter. Bendy was right, this world is fucked up.

“I’m doing this for you, dear,” the Joxter says, “It’d be wasted if you don’t even _look_.”

You refuse.

“Do you know how I caught this one?” The Joxter asks. You hear Snufkin breathing loud and panicked. It’s deafening. “I lied. Your method is very effective.”

Your stomach knots.

“I simply approached him, and it was so hard to not touch —“ Snufkin makes a pained noise. “— but I refrained. I introduced him to Bendy, told him he was looking for a friend, someone to play with. And the sweet, stupid Snufkin agreed. Didn’t you? Do you still want to play?”

“N-no,” Snufkin says through his tears. “I don’t want to play.”

“Well it’s too late to decide that _now,_ ” the Joxter admonishes. “We want to play with you very much.” After several moments of anticipatory silence, he says, “I’ll start breaking his fingers, and keep breaking them until you look.”

Your eyes immediately drop down. You know he’s not bluffing. He already has Snufkin’s small paw in his own, studying one of his fingers.

“Perfect,” the Joxter purrs when he catches your gaze. His eyes are wide and seem even paler, even sharper. True to his word, he lets Snufkin’s paw go. “Now please, try to appreciate this.”

The Joxter drags Snufkin into his lap, providing you with an uncomfortably good view.

You look without focus, gaze trapped in some middle distance. But you can’t escape what’s happening.

Snufkin’s opened like a flower too early, bruised and bloodied by the Joxter in a slow, methodical fashion. He cries weakly and jerks away from the pain, and you can see he doesn’t comprehend what’s happening, why it’s happening. You wish you could offer some explanation, but it really is as cruel and random as it seems. As much as the Joxter wants you to enjoy this, it’s impossible. It’s a child being tortured. How could anyone enjoy it?

But the Joxter does. He’s breathing heavily into Snufkin’s hair and savoring his tears like a feast.

Time has never meant much to you as a Joxter, but it’s true even less so now. It slows when it feels, and never seems to speed back up. Though it’s only been several days now, it feels so much longer. Months trapped living the same days over and over. Having to come to terms with the sheer depravity around you. Happy’s mere existence makes that impossible, however, and the more Snufkins who suffer the more you feel yourself growing numb. You can’t process this. You don’t want to.

You’re loathe to admit to yourself that the horror in front of you is just one in a cacophony. You know you should be disgusted, and you are, but it’s such an underwhelming feeling compared to seeing the other Snufkin eaten, to seeing Happy getting fucked by a monster.

Snufkin’s going to die; you’ll have failed to save even one. And for trying to go against the nature of the world you’ve suffered too.

You know the terrible things Joxters do to Snufkins, want no part of it yourself, but here you are, unwilling observer to yet another violation. This Joxter is particularly cruel as he forces Snufkin down onto his dick, ignoring or enjoying his constant screaming at each agonizing thrust. There’s blood. How someone could so easily and so readily do this escapes you, even as you see it unfolding before you. This shouldn’t be happening. Nobody could be this cruel.

When the Joxter’s done, he tosses Snufkin to the side like a piece of crumpled, used tissue. Snufkin lays there, curled in on himself, and you want to comfort him, you want to help, you really do. But you’re tied up and so, so tired. If you tried, you’d only grow attached, then he’d be taken away, killed right in front of you, because of you. Again.

The Joxter climbs on you and shoves his tongue into your mouth. It drags along your teeth, slides slimily across your own. It’s hard to breathe with it shoved into your mouth, your nose crunched up against the Joxter’s face. You for a brief moment panic, thinking he’s going to choke you to death on his tongue, then he breaks from you.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs against your lips. “I couldn’t help myself. You looked so lost and bewildered, like a Snufkin.” The Joxter’s gaze drifts over Snufkin, who hasn’t moved. He must be in so much pain, such an unfamiliar sensation for one so young. “You should have a taste of him before he’s ruined.”

“No.” It’s a weak word, flatly delivered. You can’t think of anything else to say. Just no. No to this. No to everything happening, that has happened, that will happen. _No._

“I’d like to keep this one a little longer, I think,” the Joxter muses as though you’d not spoken. “He’s small and easy to hold. I’m sure you’ll come around too, and I don’t want you to miss out on this.”

A faint hope blooms in your heart, something stupid that hasn’t learned yet that Snufkins die when they meet Joxters. Or if they don’t, they suffer a fate you begin to think is even crueler.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Changed the summary so it reflects the whole story, not just chapter one.

“Untie me,” you say. The Joxter makes a questioning hum. “I won’t leave, not without Sn— not without Happy.”

The Joxter looks like he’s considering it. For some reason, he seems to think you genuinely can be swayed, can join his nest. It’ll work to your advantage.

“I’ll try to enjoy him like you do.” You really don’t want to hold Snufkin, because it’s so so easy to get attached, but he’s quivering and pathetic-looking. He’s so scared, you instinctively want to comfort him.

The Joxter dumps Snufkin unceremoniously into your lap and creeps far too close to untie you. It’s instant pain and relief as you move your arms. Snufkin, to his credit, tries to crawl away, but you’re not the danger he should be running from. You’re interrupted by the thought of the other Snufkin — you had gotten him killed. You were a danger to him. You need a moment to get the feeling back into your arms before doing anything rash. The Joxter shoves him back into your lap. You wince at how rough he is.

Snufkin looks up at you with big, dark eyes so similar to Happy’s. His hat has flaps on it, meant for winter weather, making him look like a little dog. He’s terrified, like Happy had been when he nearly drowned as a child. You’d been terrified too, and had handled it poorly. You’d been silent and sullen, processing your own thoughts about his near death and leaving your son to his. You should have been there for him. Should have comforted him better. Should have, should have, you wish you'd done things so much differently now that you see what's become of your Snufkin. What's happening to this one.

You touch Snufkin’s cheek, and he flinches. The Joxter hasn’t moved away, looms warm and close. He’s petting you.

Snufkin reminds you so much of Happy, despite being nothing alike in personality. Growing up Happy had never much cared for people, and had often been curt to the point of rude. That was simply how he was and you’d never bothered to curb it. A Snufkin who disliked people would never approach a Joxter willingly.

This Snufkin, though, he had nobody to warn him away from Joxters. He seemed sociable and trusting, raised all wrong to protect himself. Probably not raised at all, as Snufkins often are. You’re sure if this Joxter hadn’t gotten him, another would soon.

You hold Snufkin close, mindful of his burned arm, his aching body. You don’t know the full extent of Bendy’s abilities, but it seemed a fluke he found you and Snufkin at all on his own. He’s shown no particular prowess in scenting or tracking, and the Joxter is typical of your kind: lazy. He’s also (you hope) dying.

The Joxter relaxes against you as you continue to hug Snufkin, paw circling on his back comfortingly. He’s tense and wheezy and the stink of burnt flesh lingers on him. He won’t escape unscarred, but he will escape.

You lean in very close to Snufkin, whiskers brushing his cheek, and lift the flap of his hat to whisper in his ear. “Run.”

You shove him off your lap and put yourself between him and the Joxter. Snufkin looks around for one frantic, hunted moment, then picks a direction and flees.

The Joxter doesn’t process what’s happening at first, only that his arms are suddenly full of you, which he seems momentarily pleased about before he realizes Snufkin’s gone.

“Get — hrk — get off,” he growls as you hit him and struggle for the upper hand. For a brief moment, he’s pinned, and you realize you could kill him. You could strangle him right here. He deserves to die, after what he’s done to so many Snufkins, to Happy. You’ve never felt anyone deserved to die before. It’s a sick feeling, intense and drowning, and catches you so off guard that the Joxter’s able to throw you off of him.

The ensuing fight is nothing but limbs and bursts of pain, until one particularly strong flash of agony has you curling in on yourself. The Joxter breathes heavily, knife in his hand red with blood. There’s blood on his face, too, and you wish you could appreciate it but _he stabbed you_.

He takes a moment to compose himself, catch his breath, then rolls you onto your side. “What _were_ you thinking? We’ve lost a perfectly lovely Snufkin.”

Your paws press to your side, and you can feel blood warm and slick under them. You grimace and say nothing.

The Joxter sighs. “Let me see, dear. I swear you and Happy are so injury-prone.”

You hate hearing him talk so casually about your son. You should have strangled him. But you didn't. You hate yourself for that.

He pries your hands off of your injured side and pulls your coat and sweater up. “It’s deep," he announces. "But we’ll get you patched up as best as possible. Between you and Happy I’ll have no supplies left.”

You flop onto your back and hiss at the new pain brought on by the movement. Hazily, you check for Snufkin. He’s gone. Good, you saved at least one of them.

You just hope you don’t die now so you can save another. You wish you could leave, but Happy’s here and you — well, you don’t know what you’re doing anymore. He’s so, so broken you worry you can’t save him, and guarded so well by that creature. Anything it wants to do to him, he welcomes.

You’ve convinced yourself it’s necessary for his survival in this terrible place, instead of the sickening option that he genuinely loves what Bendy does to him, by the time the Joxter returns. He’s carrying a jar, canteen, cloth, and sewing supplies. You wave him away in irritation. You don’t want him here, you want to be left to your justifications.

“I do apologize for stabbing you,” the Joxter huffs as he shoves your coat up under your armpit and washes out the wound. “You startled me, though, so you have only yourself to blame.”

He then opens the jar and dribbles honey onto the wound, before pausing and considering it. The honey mixes with blood, gold and red. That is a lot of blood. You watch him woozily.

“ _Don’t_ ,” you gasp weakly as he lowers his head to the wound. His tongue drags across it, and you shove at his shoulders to get him to stop. After a few more licks that you can _feel_ dipping into the wound, he washes it again and applies more honey, then, looking a little disappointed, he continues tending to you. Sewing, compressing, helping you up to wrap bandages around your torso.

Happy and Bendy return to you and the Joxter slumped together against the tree. His hand is pressed to your side, the wound hidden again under your bloody coat. Happy’s clothes and face are ink-stained. You don’t want to know how he got like that, but can’t deny he’s much calmer than before. He can't want this life, yet you see things like this and it hurts worse than the stab wound.

As though you’re not even there, Happy goes over to the fire pit. Bendy approaches you. Its usual grin is twisted up into a frown, and the Joxter leans a little away from you.

“What’s the big idea?” It demands, grabbing your jaw in an iron grip. The acrid ink scent assaults your nose, but you can’t get away. The sheer wrongness of Bendy is overwhelming, washing away any thoughts for a moment except the visceral need to _flee_. You try not to vomit as you’re yanked around and more pain blooms. “Y’know Happy’s mine ‘n’ ya go and fuck him anyway. If Jox didn’t like ya so much, why I’d just…” its threat trails off into an ominous silence. There’s so much it can do, and nobody could stop it.

You say nothing. If it saw what it saw and thought you had _wanted_ that, Bendy was as delusional as the rest. There’s no point arguing reason against madness. You don’t have the energy to.

It shakes your jaw hard enough to make your neck ache. “I’m bein’ real nice, Mama, when all I wanna do is just rip you apart. So what do we say?”

“Th-thank you,” you manage to stutter out. It lets go of you. Your jaw throbs in the shape of its paw. The Joxter’s not interfering, meaning this is probably a very dangerous situation you’re in.

“And what are ya gonna say for tryin’ to fuck what’s mine?”

“‘m sorry, Bendy.” Bendy is, surprisingly, simple to understand once he begins asking such leading questions. He wants servility, gratitude. You have no plans to moan like Happy, but you can grant yourself a little longer to live, to figure something out (you have to figure something out. Happy —).

“Don’t fuckin’ do it again, Mama.”

“Mama?” you mumble. You’d tolerated the other nicknames Bendy had decided to bestow on you, but this one just baffles you.

Bendy’s mood immediately lifts at your confusion. “Ya like it? I was gonna stick with Foxy, but Happy kept callin’ you _and_ the Joxter papa so it got real confusin’. So now you’re the mama, the Joxter’s the papa, and Happy’s your kid.” It cackles at whatever thought those words brought up. “Mama Joxter — oh, better! Mama Foxter, on account a them foxy hair tufts. Hey, Happy, what do ya think of Mama Foxter?”

Happy glances over at you and your heart clenches, thinking of him riding you, crying, asking why you don’t love him. You don’t know how to convince him you do, but even if he hates you for it and never believes you, you have to get him away from here.

“I like it,” he says, accompanied by the flutter of a nervous giggle. “I like my mama and papa.” It’s as though he’s completely forgotten what he did to you earlier, and maybe he has. Your poor, poor child. You wish you could forget, but your skin still crawls.

Bendy snaps its fingers until it has your attention again. “Anyway, don’t touch. I’d say don’t even look, but that seems kinda impossible for you, and I don’t think Jox’ll be too happy if I rip out yer eyes.”

“I wouldn’t be,” the Joxter interjects. “I’m quite fond of his eyes.”

You look back at Happy. Like Bendy had said, you’re drawn to him like a magnet. All you can think of is how he used to be. Maybe if you had the chance to talk to him, you could remind him of that. Of what it meant to be a Snufkin, of the life you’d had together. You’d raised him for most of his life. That can’t all be gone after just a few years. There has to be something left.

You’re very tired of thinking, though thinking is all you can do. You need to a moment away from everyone, just to preserve your sanity, but the Joxter’s too close, Bendy’s too close, and Happy’s far, far away.

You watch Happy work, but that only reminds you that you’re covered in dried spit, blood, and fluids. He’s confused, you tell yourself. Confused, and scared, just doing what he can to survive this. Snufkins aren’t made to be tortured, you know this in your soul, though many other Joxters disagree. He’s doing what he has to to survive. Playing along. (There wasn’t anyone to play for when you were alone — you shut this thought up.)

He’s desperate. He needs help. You’ve already failed once. But you’ve also succeeded —

“Bendy, did you want to play with our new friend? I’m afraid he got away due to a misunderstanding.”

“What sorta misunderstanding?” Bendy asks, eyes narrowed at you.

The Joxter waves his hand dismissively. “We cleared it up, darling. I’m afraid the Snufkin has a bit of a head start on us. He’s injured, though. Would you like to take Happy and get a bit of practice in with hunting?”

“You gonna be okay by yourself?”

“Whatever do you mean? I’ll have -- what was it -- Mama Foxter here.”

“That’s what I’m worried about.”

The Joxter makes a dismissive noise. “He’s quite docile, you know. Now, at least. It just takes time.”

You feel like you’re still bleeding. Are you? It’s hard to tell. How have they not killed your son yet, if this is how they treat people? It’s only a matter of time. You hope Snufkin is running and running and doesn’t stop. Your thoughts are a jumble.

“If you say so,” Bendy says. “C’mon, Happy, let’s see how you hunt.”

“Wait, wait,” you muster the energy to say. You need to give Snufkin more time. You need to start to understand what Happy is now. You hadn’t been forbidden from speaking to him. “Sn—Happy, what do you mean hunt?” He'd mentioned it before, but you had been so busy processing every other nightmare that you hadn't really considered what it meant. Happy  _hunts_?

Happy smiles that strange, vague smile. “Bendy and Papa are teaching me how to hunt Snufkins, just like they do. But I’m not very good at smelling them like Papa or strong like Bendy. I think… I think…” He shakes his head as though that’ll dislodge whatever thought he’s had. “I think I know how they hide, though. I think you taught me that, Mama.”

You did, but you can’t bring yourself to say that. You didn’t teach him so he could hunt. “Snufkin,” you sigh. How they’ve twisted him, broken him. He needs you so much now.

“My name’s Happy.”

“Enough with the chitchat,” Bendy interrupts, taking Happy’s paw in his own. “C’mon, Happy.”

“Bye, Papa, bye, Mama,” Happy calls, waving as he’s pulled along into the forest.

“Do have fun.”

There’s silence.

“Perhaps one day you can join —“

“How can you do this?”

The Joxter frowns and seems thrown off by your interruption. Most Joxters, you’ve found, don’t like being interrupted, but you don’t care. You’ve never been one for manners.

“What do you mean?”

“Torture Snufkins, break them like you did to my son. It’s sick.” You've heard the reasons before, but they never make sense. They're like water in a sieve. 

The Joxter looks affronted at the very idea of being sick, but he takes a moment to compose himself before answering. “You sound more like a Snufkin than a Joxter when you talk like that, dear," he warns. "Surely you feel the allure of Snufkins, how beautiful they are. They smell so wonderful, look sweet and pretty. I love them, I think, best of all.”

“...I do, too,” you say, hesitant, but willing to make a connection if it could be worked to your favor. You’ve loved every Snufkin you’ve met, some more fervently than others, but all of them loved just the same. But that isn’t actually any sort of common ground; you would never do what the Joxter does to them. The Joxter inches closer, until he’s flush to you and his hand slips around your waist to rest on your knife wound.

He presses gently and ignores your faint struggling, then murmurs against your ear. “You do confuse me. You’re a Joxter, but sometimes I see you hurt or upset, and I love you like you were a Snufkin. You just seem to invite pain. It’s quite cruel of you.”

You shove against him, but you’re weak and easily ignored. The Joxter tucks your head under his chin and melts against you. He’s making a pleased sound in his throat.

“Snufkin’s not important,” the Joxter says eventually, rousing you from a stupor you’d not realized you’d fallen into. You’d never been stabbed before. The pain now throbs dully in your body, knotting muscles and oozing through your veins.

“What?”

“Whether they catch him or not, I’ve decided not to be upset about losing him. There’ll be other Snufkins. There always are.”

You’re silent. You’ve nothing to say to that dismissive personality. The Joxter might love Snufkins but they’re ephemeral to him. It’s a frightening thing to think, that Snufkins are meant to be used and discarded. Temporary.

The Joxter doesn’t seem to mind your silence this time, as he relaxes again against you. He doesn’t mind your faint shudder at the contact. He doesn’t seem to mind much of anything at all. It was almost enviable because caring hurt more than it should. Caring got Snufkins you’ve loved killed or ruined.

And right about now, with the background thrum of pain, the wind rustling through the flower-laden trees, the quiet and calm all around, you’d love not to care. But you can’t not worry about Snufkin, fleeing for his life while you just sit there, or about Happy _hunting_ like some strange Joxter. You can’t ignore that there’s an impossible abomination of ink and malice laying claim to your son.

The Joxter curls his arm around you and rests his cheek against your head. You didn’t realize how tense you were against him, like a wire drawn taut. “Just rest, dear. I find things are always nicer after a nap.”

You hate your natural inclination to agree, but Joxters are a sleepy, cat-like race, and you’re no exception, especially wounded and aching as you are. You shouldn’t sleep, but it’s hard not to. Just sleep away the worry, the care, the pain. Dream that Snufkin makes it though there’s a Foreboding in your whiskers you can’t ignore. You feel the pull, but dread what you’ll awaken to.

You shouldn’t sleep, as though by being awake you can somehow stop anything bad from happening.

  
  
  


Crying pulls you from the syrupy darkness, and you startle awake. You hadn't meant to --

The Joxter rouses more slowly next to you. He has nothing to fear.

“Congratulations, Happy,” he says drowsily. Happy’s hugging Snufkin like a large, sad doll, both splashed in ink, and Bendy stands behind him, monstrous and covered in leaves and twigs.

You wonder, briefly, if you’ve offended some god. Life isn’t meant to be this cruel; Snufkins aren’t meant to be caught. They’re not, yet it keeps happening right in front of you. The entire universe is contriving to hurt Snufkins and force you to be the audience to them all. “ _No_ ,” you say quietly.

Bendy melts down into its smaller form and circles around Happy, who kneels obligingly to put Snufkin at Bendy’s height. It grabs his burned arm, which is a pulpy red, dripping blood and pus. He sniffles and collapses as Bendy pulls him from Happy’s arms.

“What’s wrong, kid? I thought ya wanted to play.”

“The poor dear said he didn’t want to anymore,” the Joxter provides. “But I told him he can’t go breaking promises so easily. It’s a dreadfully rude habit. Much like running away.”

“Yeah, real rude. I still wanna play with ya.” Bendy shakes Snufkin, who just cries and says nothing. Words seem to be beyond him at this point. It drags Snufkin to paws and knees. “How ‘bout patty cake? Ever played patty-cake before?”

Snufkin shakes his head. Bendy explains the steps and rhyme, and it sounds so simple and childish that it’s hard to think Bendy actually enjoys it. You can see that Snufkin isn’t going to remember them, isn’t even focused on them. This is a nightmare, where even the easiest of instructions are impossible to follow.

Happy, you realize with a creeping unease, is completely still, watching Bendy and Snufkin interact. It takes a moment, but you connect it, somehow, to jealousy. Happy’s _jealous_ of Snufkin. Jealousy is a trait unbefitting any Snufkin, but this isn’t the first time he’s shown it — you remember him asking why you didn’t fuck him, why you didn’t _love_ him like the other Snufkin. That he’d envy this poor, wounded creature who’s clearly terrified and unwanting of Bendy’s attention kills you. Happy’s so twisted up and confused, and so unlike what a Snufkin should be, so unlike how you raised him. That fear that you can’t save him returns. Much as you care, much as you want to, Happy’s been shattered and put back together all wrong. You can't save him. There's too much wrong, and you're only one weak person.

Bendy starts playing patty-cake with Snufkin, whose arms aren’t following the pattern at all. He flinches at every movement, awaiting a blow.

“Please, Bendy,” you say. “Please — he can’t play with you like that.”

Bendy, who you expect to be frustrated by Snufkin’s lack of involvement, laughs instead. “That’s what makes it so much fun, Mama Foxter. I know Snufkins ain’t all that bright, but it sure is fun to watch ‘em struggle. Hey, Happy, you’re good at patty cake, wanna help our buddy out?”

Happy’s sullen attitude immediately lifts as Bendy addresses him. He practically glows at the compliment, and you begin to understand that so much of him is wrapped up in Bendy. You’ve heard of creatures who can control the minds of others — hypnotism and pretty words. Perhaps that is what’s happened to your son. It's not by Happy's will that he's like this, so dependent on such a monstrous being. It's something else. Mind control, abuse, fear. He doesn't want this. He couldn't.

Happy drops down to the ground behind Snufkin and grabs his limp arms.

“Happy, can’t you see he’s hurting?”

Happy giggles and gives you barely a glance. “Snufkins are supposed to hurt, Mama.” He says this as though explaining to a child. He’s told you this before. It’s ingrained into him. _Years_ , you think. Years of suffering.

A paw comes up and covers your mouth, pulling you back. You hadn’t even realized you’d inched forward, toward the three of them, as though you could stop any of this from happening. You can’t. You tried and you failed and you failed again.

“Hush, dear. Let them have their fun,” the Joxter whispers against your ear. You huff against his glove, trying to not let the tears fall. You fail, yet again.


	6. Chapter 6

They play for an agony’s worth of time, Bendy’s amusement at Snufkin’s suffering seeming unending. Over and over the same rhyme, hypnotic in its repetition, deceptively lulling. Snufkin’s small paws must ache from the constant contact, but neither Happy nor Bendy show any sign of stopping.

Until Bendy chirps out a “wait! I gotta new idea!”

Happy’s paws, and subsequently Snufkin’s, still immediately. Happy’s eyes are feverishly bright, and he clings to Bendy’s every word. You hate it. You hate everything about this. And you can’t escape.

“Snufkin knows how this goes, now, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Happy agrees, nodding fervently.

“Let’s see how long he can keep it up by himself. But I ain’t gonna go easy on ya, kiddo,” Bendy says, wagging a finger at Snufkin, who only stares with glassy, wide eyes. “See, instead a ya just doin’ it, I got a surprise for ya.”

Snufkin says nothing. You understand. There’s nothing to say, nothing to prepare for whatever twisted surprise Bendy has planned.

“Happy,” Bendy says. Happy somehow manages to be even more attentive. It sickens you to see him so desperate for every little acknowledgement, every little bit of attention. It was so un-Snufkinish. Everything he wasn’t supposed to be. “Happy, I want ya to choke our pal here, real slow.”

“Yes, Bendy,” he says breathlessly. His paws drift from Snufkin’s own to his small, thin throat. It flashes, pale and vulnerable, as he swallows.

The game starts up again and, to his credit, Snufkin manages to keep pace. At first.

Happy’s grip tightens minutely. Snufkin’s crying again. The tears are dripping messily down his face, splashing on Happy’s skin. His breath hitches. His movements falter.

Bendy slaps him.

Snufkin jumps back to attention, back to the game. Happy continues to squeeze, tighter and tighter. You push yourself to paws and knees. The world twists and sways dangerously. You feel the sharp sting of acid in your throat. Pain lances up your side.

“Happy —“ you gasp. “Stop —“ You lurch forward and nearly fall on your face. Ink immediately latches on to you and pushes you back, away from him. Bendy’s still playing patty cake, but his gaze is locked on you.

“Stay with me, dear. It’s safer for you that way,” the Joxter says right in your ear, helping you fall backwards against him. His paw drifts down to his pants, which are undone. His bi-colored cock hangs out, flush and glistening on its tip. You jerk your head away from him, gaze resolutely anywhere else.

The wet slapping of his own skin is punctuated by the occasional slap from Bendy hitting Snufkin. You have two options left to you: accept what is happening, or fight. Fighting is futile, but you can’t accept it. You force yourself to relax, though, thoughts percolating in your head.

The ink relaxes as Bendy’s attention returns to the game. Snufkin’s face is splotchy from the tears and the choking. His breath wheezes out, his nose and eyes are runny. And yet he’s still so valiantly trying to play. His little paws, mangled and scorched, swing and fumble. He knows he’ll die if he doesn’t. You know he’ll die either way.

You gather your energy, weak and fragmented as it is. You’re about to do something incredibly stupid. But there’s nothing else for you to do, and Snufkin’s running out of time.

You lunge at Happy and punch him. You can’t believe you’re attacking your own child, but you know he’s too far under Bendy’s spell. You already let another Snufkin die trying to save him.

He loosens his grip on Snufkin with a startled cry, and you rip Snufkin from his arms. You draw him in close, and curl your body protectively around him as he gulps down air. At any moment you expect Bendy’s inky mass to come crashing down on you, all spikes and teeth and rage.

You can’t save Snufkin, but you tried. The world is fading in and out of blackness, soupy and confusing. Snufkin’s limp in your arms. At least it will be a quick death for you both.

The attack doesn’t come, and you have trouble figuring out why until the world consolidates a little better around you. You glance over your shoulder.

“He didn’t hurt me any, Bendy,” Happy says, one hand pressed to his cheek. Bendy is in its monstrous form, heaving. Its teeth are bared but Happy’s between you two. He’s trembling in fright. Even in his madness, he knows to fear this monster. “Not like you do.”

You still don’t understand what’s happening, but you try to climb to your feet and keep Snufkin close at the same time. The Joxter gently shoves you back down.

“You’re a very lucky person,” he says kindly. You wish you had the energy to punch him, too. “Bendy would have killed you if not for Happy.”

You slap weakly at him when he tries to take Snufkin from you, and he lets you be. You struggle to focus on the conversation happening behind you. It comes in and out, and you can’t really understand everything you’re hearing.

“— don’t think he meant it — papa needs a mama — he likes — it just startled —“

Words tumble over each other a little longer, then you recognize Bendy’s voice. Not what he’s saying, but the tone and cadence. You’re having trouble with reality, and your side is icy hot and feels wet. Snufkin is — Snufkin is still in your arms. Good. You can’t really feel him there and he’s not moving much, but he’s there. You gave him a few moments more, though neither of you can do anything now.

  
  
  
  


You come to, and he’s gone. You can’t muster the energy for panic, but there is a spark of it. You’ve been left alone, though the others are nearby. The Joxter is tending the fire and Bendy and Happy sit around it. It’s darkening out. After several moments of searching, you find Snufkin. He’s in Happy’s arms again. There isn’t even a bruise on Happy from where you hit him.

Happy is holding Snufkin like a doll, and he’s not moving. You can see the fire reflected in his glassy eyes. Happy’s eyes are also glassy, wet with tears.

“Oh, great. He’s decided t’ join us again,” Bendy says flatly. He still wants to kill you.

“He looks so confused.”

“He likes Snufkin better than me.”

“Yeah, what th’ hell, Mama? Why’d ya go punchin’ yer own kid?”

“He likes Snufkin better than me,” Happy repeats, voice emotionless.

You hurt inside, hearing him say that. You love him. He just doesn’t know what love is anymore. 

“I do appreciate you sparing him, despite all the trouble he’s caused,” the Joxter says as though Happy hadn’t spoken at all. “He’s…. I’m not quite sure, but I do enjoy it.”

Bendy shrugs. “I guess. Dunno what ya see in ‘im but if it makes ya happy.”

“Me?”

“Not you, dummy.”

You stare at them as though they’re all mad. They are. This is madness, you realize over and over again. This is a nightmare. They’re all speaking so normally, with a half-dead Snufkin and you sluggishly oozing blood only a few feet away. You can faintly feel the warmth of the fire and instinctively crave it as the chill of night and bloodloss sets in, but refuse to approach. You’re not even sure if you could.

Happy lapses into thought as Bendy and the Joxter talk. You tune them out. They’ve nothing important left to say. Instead, you watch Happy and Snufkin. You know Snufkin is going to die, it’s only a matter of when. It’s tragic in a way you’re completely numb to now. You remember what Happy said. Snufkins are meant to be hurt. Happy hurts Snufkins.

You wonder what must be running through his mind right now, as he gazes at the flames and strokes his thin fingers through Snufkin’s hair which peeks out from under his hat. Happy shifts his attention to you, and catches your eye. Neither of you break contact. His eyes are so dark and strange and Joxterish. You used to love them, because they came from you, but now they’re dead and blank. You can’t look away.

Happy shoves Snufkin into the fire.

Snufkin screeches loud enough to echo and flails as his clothes catch flame, as his hair and skin burn. You spasm forward to help him, but can’t even get up. He thrashes wildly, plumes of smoke and stink rising from his burning body. Skin darkens, cracks, breaks and wells with bright red blood that burns away. You can see fatty layers and muscle. Every second sears into your mind.

The Joxter leaps back with a startled cry, a hand flying to his nose. The smell of burning cloth and flesh are unbearable as they waft toward you on evening breezes. Everything around you is calm and cool and fresh, while a child burns to death and you can do nothing to stop it.

You vomit at the rolling wave of stench. There’s nothing to throw up but you heave and spit and taste the acid, taste the pain the contractions cause you in your side. You wish desperately that you could get away, that you could unwitness this. Forget about everything you’ve experienced here.

Snufkin takes what feels like hours to die, long after his thrashing has subdued the flames. Happy remains exactly where he was the entire time, blank gaze locked on Snufkin’s body as he shakes and twitches and expires so, so slowly. You can’t believe what you’ve just witnessed — the brutal, cold-hearted murder of a person by a Snufkin — but the others are acting like it’s a mere inconvenience.

It’s like you’ve descended into another layer of hell. You love your son, but… but there’s nothing left of him in Happy. Your Snufkin would never have been capable of such an atrocity. They killed him as surely as they killed the other Snufkins.

“Now you have to like me better,” Happy says once Snufkin stops moving. He sounds pleased.

“No,” you say weakly from your position on the ground. Happy’s lips purse, and his brows furrow in confusion. “I don’t even know who you are.”

You muster the energy to roll onto your other side (your bad side, but you don’t care). You can’t look at him anymore. You can’t think on how he became like this, how broken and ruined he is.

Happy sits a while longer, eyes on you, before he stands and leaves. Bendy follows, and the Joxter disappears into his canoe.

You’re alone now with only a dead Snufkin for company. He didn’t deserve this, living his last hours in mind numbing fear, only to die horrifically. You feel as though you’re to blame for this happening, though you don’t know why. For bringing Happy into this world, for trying to return to him and getting Snufkin killed, for being unable to save the second one. For everything.

  
  
  
  
  


The Joxter returns once the smoke has faded somewhat, enough for him to tolerate with his weakened sense of smell. The stink of burning flesh still clings to you, but you’ve grown accustomed to it.

He sits next to you. A paw settles in your hair. You smell the once pleasant smolder of tobacco, though it’s now laced through with the other scents. He says nothing, for a while. Just sits in silence with you.

When he does speak, you wish he would have stayed silent forever.

“Happy was difficult too, at first. You raised him well. He was so pretty when I first laid eyes on him. I’m impressed that you never did anything to him. Such temptation. Such a strong will you must have.” You don’t try to deny it or refute anything he says. It wouldn’t do anything, anyway. He continues to pet you. “You remind me of a fiesty Snufkin, though I know you’re a Joxter like myself. You’re just so strange. So… captivating. I want to break you like a Snufkin. But I also want to enjoy your company like a Joxter.” He leans down and blows a haze of smoke across your face, gently caressing it with the warm musk. It makes your whiskers tingle. “You do confuse me, my dear.”

You twist your head away from him, burying it in the debris of the ground. You want nothing to do with the Joxter. Or Bendy.

Or even Happy.

The Joxter lays down beside you and slips an arm over your side.

You succumb to sleep like this. You gladly embrace it this time, because there’s nobody left to save, not even yourself.   
  
  
  


 

The next few days are a haze of pain and feverish dreams. You, unsurprisingly, got an infection where the Joxter stabbed you. Happy is attentive enough to draw that devil’s attention back to you, but it makes no attempt to kill you, for now.

You remember glimpses of Snufkin’s body being eaten, the crunch of bones, the wet slap of cooling innards. You dream about it, over and over, and sometimes it’s a different Snufkin, sometimes it’s Happy, sometimes it’s you but you wake to find only the Joxter hovering, too warm, above you.

You think he fucks you, then, too, but you don’t know if it’s real or a dream. It doesn’t hurt compared to the pain in your side and pounding in your head.

Days pass, and you don’t die, though you want to several times. Food is forced down your throat, as is water, and you sometimes keep it down, other times spit it out or vomit it back up. They refuse to let you die.

You barely register when the world coalesces around you again, and is solid and logical (as logical as it can be, by now). You lay there, numb, but not burning, not freezing. Breathing is still difficult, raspy and rough, but not an agonizing struggle.

They’ve moved you to the canoe, all fluff and fabric from slaughtered Snufkins. They’ve made sure you’re comfortable, clean, tended to. You feel gross and dirty, regardless.

You’re surviving. You don’t want to, but what you want doesn’t matter anymore. If it ever did. You’ve gotten a silly thought in your head at some point while you were delirious with infection, the idea that you’re in a story and one that doesn’t end happily. Once you thought it you couldn’t stop thinking about it, though.

This is just some sick, twisted story you’re forced to play audience to and participant in. It’s not even your story, because you realize now you can’t win. You can’t escape. You were never meant to, just like Happy, just like the other Snufkins. You think, even, that the Joxter can’t escape either. He’s dying slowly but surely. Everything was contrived against you and in favor of the devil. This is all Bendy’s story. You don’t think the Joxter knows this, yet, but you do. 

“It’s lovely to see you smile, dear,” the Joxter says as he clambers back into the canoe with fruit in his arms.

He hands you an orange, then takes it back when you struggle even to peel it for yourself. His grimy paws make quick work of the skin, and you’re given it segment by segment. You’re not even tied down anymore. It’s not necessary. Nothing matters.

The Joxter settles against you, warm and solid and real despite what your brain is telling you. That he’s just words on a page, or drawings in a book. That you are, too.

You eat the orange. It tastes like ink.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Mama Foxter's Abysmal Rescue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15927728) by [Doceo_Percepto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doceo_Percepto/pseuds/Doceo_Percepto)
  * [A Band of Merry Folks](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18058973) by [Doceo_Percepto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doceo_Percepto/pseuds/Doceo_Percepto)
  * [A Mama's Life](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18790519) by [Doceo_Percepto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doceo_Percepto/pseuds/Doceo_Percepto)




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